


No Light, No Light

by scrapbullet



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Blackwood is a bit of a bastard, Dark, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-05
Updated: 2012-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-29 00:49:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There is something I must ask of you, Coward,” Henry says after a time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Light, No Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [viceindustrious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceindustrious/gifts).



This dance of theirs, as ancient and reviled as it is, will aid them in their endeavour, and Coward finds himself ill at ease, nerves singing, his palms damp with sweat. He stands in the very centre of the antechamber, barefoot and clad in only his ceremonial robes; as surreptitious a velvet kiss as any, swathing his nude body. Preparation is key, or so they say, and, in this, the typical garb of the Order hides many secrets from prying eyes.

There is only one who may look upon the emblems scored into his flesh.

Indeed, one man and one man only.

“You seem apprehensive.”

Coward stills, the blatant trembling of his body belying his excitement. “I am honoured, my Lord-”

Henry hums, noncommittal. It matters little, and Coward flushes, heat rising to tarnish the skin. He is a king in all but name, is Lord Blackwood, and he is to be treated as such; respected, revered. He cares only for _results_ , results that Coward struggles to attain. Though he be in a position of power he has found his contacts to be decidedly _lacking_ , and so with his failure comes punishment.

As is to be expected, of course.

“There is something I must ask of you, Coward,” Henry says after a time. He is fully dressed, as a gentleman should be, though his leather coat is draped across the dais he sits upon. There is a knife in its sheath balanced on one thigh, and he palms it with a hand that is assured, that does not quake. “I had thought, perhaps, to request it of another – Stamford would have been an excellent candidate – but I find that, with consideration, you are the only logical choice.”

Coward’s chest swells. Is that pride he feels beating in his chest, delicate and easily quashed within the viscera?

He says nothing. Henry’s lips twitch; clearly pleased.

“Come. Kneel,” and Coward does so, without hesitation, the pride bursting so bright and hot that his heart flutters against his ribs like a bird in a brass cage. The stone is cool and solid beneath him as Henry lowers Coward’s hood, slips the knife from its sheath, and smiles.

The first cut, as they say, is the deepest.

The song of steel on flesh is exultant, jocund, but Coward keeps his head still lest he incur the wrath of his Lord. Henry need not lay a steadying hand on his head as the blade sinks into the socket with utmost care, and as the blood begins to spread Coward bites through his tongue, for to scream would be to dishonour Him.

His Lord is King, is All; is a God among men, and if this, if this is what must be-

It’s agony. He longs to pull away, to beg and plead, but Coward’s loyalty knows no bounds. A twist, and the blade spoons the vulnerable oculus, scooping it out with a sickening squelch as it splits, spitting a milky, viscous fluid that dribbles down his trembling cheek, and finally Coward succumbs.

A scream spills from his lips, wet and wretched. He licks his lips and tastes blood; Henry’s hand a heavy weight on his shoulder, grounding him whilst the agony coalesces, blooming outward.

Beyond the drum beat, there is silence. His mind sparks ones, twice, the gossamer threads crossing, entwining, breaking. There, beyond the din, Henry murmurs words beyond comprehension, and the slick whisper of his tongue licking the blade clean is enough for bile to gurgle up past the barrier of Victorian propriety. He vomits, hot and heaving, onto the stone floor.

The ritual, resplendent in its simplicity, is thus; the more personal the sacrifice the more potent the spell, its influence lending a smoky flavour to the air. Patchouli and candle wax co-mingles with the stark scent of excrement, the metallic sting of blood exquisite.

Coward whimpers, struggling for breath. His fingers scrabble at his face and Henry hums, dissatisfied.

“Hush, you’ll hurt yourself-”

Blood, blood and slick and loss and _pain_ , but Henry grounds him, gives him purpose. Their fingers lace, if only for a moment, and the press of lips upon his forehead eases him.

“- we’ve only just begun.”


End file.
